


Only One Bed | Plants, Pastries, and Potter

by EvAEleanor



Series: Seven Shades of Romance [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baker Harry Potter, Beauxbatons Student Draco Malfoy, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, First Meetings, French Draco Malfoy, Hangover, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Intercrural Sex, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tropes, a dash of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvAEleanor/pseuds/EvAEleanor
Summary: Draco is sure that not much can go wrong with him helping Neville out. It’s only for three days, after all. Then, he hadn’t thought to bring Neville’s gorgeous neighbour into the calculation.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Seven Shades of Romance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153148
Comments: 8
Kudos: 153
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	Only One Bed | Plants, Pastries, and Potter

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Romance anthology](/series/2153148), the fourth in a series of collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> Chosen tropes: Only one bed, French!Draco 
> 
> Thanks a million to [nettleforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nettleforest) for betaing all the French bits. 
> 
> My fellow ladies, you’re all amazing, and I’m so happy to have you in my life. I blame Drarrelie for this story who tricked me by appealing to my inner Gryffindor (she challenged me). 
> 
> The translation for the French parts can be found in the endnotes.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J. K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. This writer distances herself from J. K. Rowling and her views. 
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/3tIY5TG); one song for each of the seven fics included in the collection.
> 
> Accompanying song: "Introductory Movement" by Yann Tiersen.

* * *

When Draco arrives via Portkey on an early Sunday morning in Scotland, he almost slips in front of Neville’s flower shop. The frosty wind, laced with snowflakes, blows directly in his face.

 _How nice to be back in Britain_ , Draco thinks sarcastically. 

With carefully taken steps, he approaches the shop door. He pauses for a second in front of the door to read the name written in loopy script.

“ _Whoopsie Daisy_?” Draco mouths. “Did Neville really name his shop _Whoopsie Daisy_?” he shakes his head, incredulous, as he rings the bell.

Five minutes later, he is still waiting for someone to answer the door. His feet take turns tapping on the stone step, mostly to check that his toes haven’t frozen off yet. Not even his best heating charms are helping him at the moment. 

After ringing the bell again and waiting yet another few minutes, Draco cautiously steps back to see all the windows are still dark. There is, however, a light next door. From where Draco stands, he has an undisturbed view into the back room of the bakery next to Neville’s flower shop.

His eyes fall on big hands kneading dough, on flexing arm muscles, and broad, moving shoulders. The white apron can’t hide the well-toned chest, and Draco is secretly grateful for it. When the person lifts his arm to wipe a bit of sweat off their forehead with a small cloth, Draco sees the most beautiful face ever. Or at least the profile.

“Enjoying the view?” a deep voice says from behind Draco.

Taken off guard, Draco jumps on the spot, slips, but is saved by a pair of brawny arms.

“C’est quoi ce bordel?” Draco exclaims, panting heavily. 

“Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Neville apologises, the hint of an amused smile on his face. Neville lets go of Draco as soon as he can stand upright. “Shall I introduce you?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the baker.

Draco shakes his head. “Let’s just get inside.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea. Harry makes a mean hot chocolate.”

Any protest is cut short by the sound of a ringing bell when Neville opens the door. After exhaling audibly, Draco resigns and follows suit. Upon entering, he glances at the door.

 _Baguette Magique._

_Zut! Where did I end up?_ Draco thinks.

He takes the seat opposite Neville and glances around the shop. It’s small, only four tables, but it’s warm and homely. A couple of brightly daubed canvases line the wall, and Draco knows immediately that Luna is the artist. She’s always drawn, even as a child. Draco thinks of old times in Malfoy Manor with her, before his father chose his loyalty for the Dark Lord over his family, and his mother saw no other way to protect him than to go to France, separating Draco from all his friends.

Draco first ran into Neville at a Healer symposia a few years back. His speeches on herbal and plant-based remedies caught Draco’s attention, and since then, they’ve shared many conversations over lunches and dinners during similar events. For hours, Neville has spoken about the plants — some truly rare — in his greenhouses. While Draco is familiar with most of them because his mother tended to them at Rosier Villa, he’s been itching for so long to see Neville’s collection. Now, he finally gets to see them with his own eyes. 

That’s why Draco is here. It would be impossible for Luna to handle the shop and the plants while Neville stays with his grandmother, Augusta, for a few days, helping her to get back on her feet. 

Draco is pulled out of his reminiscent thoughts by the soft clink of china on the wooden table. To be honest, Draco prefers tea or coffee over hot chocolate, but this smells heavenly.

“Harry, this is Draco. Draco this is Harry, the owner of this lovely place.”

 _Magnifique._

It’s the only way to describe the man before him. The piercing eyes, the long eyelashes, a hint of freckles on his cheekbones, and the wide, inviting smile. He’s even more gorgeous up close. On a very objective level, of course.

It takes Draco a full ten seconds to realise he’s been staring, and that he hasn’t shaken the proffered hand Harry has extended. Hell, he hasn’t even been aware of it. The spell breaks when the gorgeous man sighs audibly, rolls his eyes, and walks away.

Folding his hands around the mug, Draco picks it up to take a sip, trying his best to hide the embarrassment of what can surely be counted as the worst first impression ever.

Neville groans. “Not you too.” 

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Draco. You’ve got the same look on your face as all the other Potter fans.”

Draco furrows his brows in confusion, but then, suddenly, it hits him. The man who’s just brought him a hot chocolate, ~~who Draco has been staring at like a hormonal teenager,~~ is _Harry Potter_.

However, disagreeing with Neville would mean confessing the real reason for his behaviour, and quite honestly he’d rather take his Healer exams again. All thirteen of them. So instead, he inquires about the shop, about Luna and Augusta, and they also talk about the next few days. Neville tells him that Luna will be joining them later.

* * *

The next morning, Draco is woken by Neville faffing about in the flat. A quick glance to the alarm clock on his bedside table tells him it’s six thirty a.m., way too early for Draco to be up. 

Nevertheless, he drags himself out of bed into the bathroom and then into Neville’s kitchen, only to put his arms on the table, resting his head on top of them. 

“Morning, sunshine.” 

“Vas-t-en,” Draco grumbles. “Je dors.” 

“Okay...” The word is dragged out. “How about we go down to the greenhouses?” 

“Non, c’est trop tôt.” Draco looks up, seeing the confusion on Neville’s face, and then it clicks. He’s been speaking French. “Sorry. When does your Portkey leave?” 

“A bit over an hour. Greenhouses?” 

“No, I can handle them, don’t worry. You’re gonna get us breakfast while I’m changing. No arguments.” 

“All right,” Neville sighs and leaves the flat.

* * *

“Draco!” someone shouts, entering the greenhouse. 

Draco casts a quick Tempus Charm, cursing as he realises it’s already one p.m, which means the delivery to Harry’s bakery is long overdue and Luna needed him an hour ago. Looking after the plants — and calming some of them down because they’re sensing Neville’s absence — has taken longer than expected.

_Merde._

“I’m so sorry, I—”

“I don’t give a fuck. I need those blossoms.”

The surrounding air is buzzing. Draco knows he has to diffuse the situation because they’re standing next to the batch of magical mimosas for St Mungo’s. “Harry, please calm down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do when you can’t even manage to bring a bunch of blossoms to the bakery on time, which is literally next door. Instead, I have to come over here, forcing me to close my shop because Lavender is sick and nobody could help out. I have three wedding cakes to make, and one of the brides changes her opinion on the style and flavour in between owls. I. Need. Those. Fucking. Blossoms!” 

When Harry is done yelling, the leaves of the mimosas have shrivelled and turned a dismal shade of brown. 

“Leave, please, and I’ll bring your order tout de suite,” Draco insists, trying to remain as calm as possible for the sake of the sensible shrubs. Harry just turns on his heel and leaves.

Coaxing the mimosas back to health will be a laborious task, especially since they’re supposed to go out in two days. They’ve soaked up so much of Harry’s negative energy, that a Patronus would be the only way to bring them back to health, spraying them with as much hope and goodness as he can muster. Draco isn’t sure he can perform one right now, though. He’s never excelled at that particular spell.

* * *

As Draco steps out of the shop’s back door on his way to the greenhouses, the evening air hits Draco’s face with brutal force. All he truly desires now is a warm shower, but he has to check on the mimosas and a couple of other plants before he can make his way upstairs to Neville’s flat. After casting a gentle Lumos as to not interfere too heavily with the plants’ perception of night and day, he finishes the to-do list for the day. The mimosas are thankfully better; Luna must’ve given them a proper dose of happiness because Draco can see the early signs of new buds. 

A gentle knock on the greenhouse door causes Draco to glance up from his kneeling position before returning his attention back to the plants.

_No, please no._

After the incident earlier, Draco has been fuming all day. To his dismay, there’s a big window on the right wall of the flower shop, offering a perfect view into the bakery, and whenever Draco’s risked a glance, he’s told himself to be angry, to not pay attention to the way Harry’s trousers hug his arse in all the right places. To not wish he were the customer at whom Harry was smiling. It was similar to, but not quite the same as the smile Draco saw on him yesterday, and the only reason he wants Harry to smile at him again is because this small gesture makes people happy. Anything else would be preposterous.

“Can I come in?” Harry asks calmly, interfering with Draco’s thoughts.

“As long as you keep your temper in check, sure,” Draco says, not looking up again. 

Heavy footsteps make their way over to him, and with every single one of them, Draco’s heart beats just that little bit faster in his chest. It’s just the nerves after what happened earlier, nothing else. 

Gently, Harry places a cup on the ground next to Draco, who frowns at him. 

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“And you thought tea would rectify the situation? I’m used to better apologies.”

 _Can you please stop smelling so good?_ Draco isn’t thinking about tea anymore.

“It’s not like it was my mistake that started it.”

“No, but I—” Draco looks down to where one of his hands is still holding a mimosa leaf “—Je suis occupé.”

 _Merde. Concentres toi Draco!_

Draco feels heat crawling up his neck and he’s glad he can blame it on the warmth in the greenhouse. 

“Y-you speak French?”

“Evidently,” Draco deadpans. “I went to Beauxbatons and I've lived in France for most of my life.”

“All right,” Harry drawls. “So, Mr I-need-a-proper-apology, what do you say about dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook.” Upon speaking the last words, Harry places a hand on Draco’s upper arm. Draco’s body leans — involuntarily — a little bit into the touch. 

Underneath all these layers, Draco shouldn’t be able to feel anything. Yet his skin is ignited, and the heat rolls in waves through his entire body. 

“D’accord,” he answers. 

“Perfect. Be at the bakery around half seven.” 

Harry is about to exit the greenhouse when he adds, “Bring something to drink.”

_Merde. Je suis vraiment foutu!_

* * *

Draco runs his hands through his hair. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and above all, he’s exhausted. It’s almost midnight, and it’s all cold — the water in the shower, the flat, the shop. He’s spent the last hours casting warming charms, but the more he casts them, the shorter they last. He knows what he ought to do, but he’s already messed up once today and Harry will undoubtedly owl Neville who, in turn, will arrive back promptly. Draco can’t risk that. He can do this. 

As it turns out, he can’t do this. Two hours later, he wraps himself in a blanket and makes his way to Harry’s flat, which is conveniently located above the bakery. 

He knocks on the door once, twice, and waits. No answer. Draco knocks harder. Still no answer. He lifts his leg, aims for the door, and—

“Ouch!” Harry exclaims. “You son of a… Why are you draped in a blanket?”

Draco blinks a couple of times to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

No, Harry is really dressed in jogger bottoms. _Just_ jogger bottoms which hang unbelievably low on his hips. 

“It’s cold. Everything. I-I think I broke the boiler,” Draco utters after a minute. 

Harry exhales. “Okay. You get in, and I’ll check it out.” Harry steps aside and lets Draco into his flat. “Bathroom’s to the left; feel free to take a shower. Towels are on the shelves.” Draco watches Harry grab a shirt from the floor, slip it on, and then he’s out the door, leaving Draco all by himself in a foreign flat.

 _This is awkward._

Standing in the middle of Harry’s flat is definitely weird. And Draco is literally in the middle. Right in front of him is Harry’s kitchen with a dining table, to his right are two comfy armchairs flanking a small coffee table, and behind them, the foot end of his bed is visible. 

Since Draco is in dire need of a shower, he goes into the bathroom. He quickly undresses and steps into the tub, pulling the curtain shut. 

_Warm water._ Draco never ever thought he’d be this grateful for having a proper shower. For a couple of minutes, he just stands under the spray, enjoying the warmth, before soaping himself up and rinsing off all the dirt and tension from what has been an excruciatingly long day. 

Once all traces have gone down the drain, Draco opens the curtain and reaches for a towel. To his surprise, it’s fluffier than it looks. And it smells good, too. He brings a bit of the soft fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent is interestingly sweet and crisp; oddly calming. Once he realises what he’s doing, though, he quickly starts drying himself off. 

_I’m just tired_ , he reasons with himself. 

The moment he’s drying his back, the door swings open. 

“Quel bordel!” Draco yelps, scrambling to cover himself. 

“I swear I didn’t see anything,” Harry claims after he’s turned around.

“That’s what people say when they have.” Draco slams the door shut. 

_Fuck. Please, Earth, will you just swallow me whole?_

Sadly, seeing Harry again is unavoidable, but maybe he’s been able to fix the boiler, allowing Draco to at least go back to Neville’s flat. He just needs to get this over with, and it’s not like it can get any worse. Dry and dressed, Draco exits the bathroom and crosses the room, taking a seat across from Harry at the dining table. 

“So?”

“I’m gonna cut this short. Good news, you were right. Bad news, I need to call my cousin in the morning, hoping he can fix it.”

“Merde.”

“Yep. I’ve already brought the plants from the flat to the shop downstairs and put two small electric heaters in there.” Draco feels a warm, calloused hand on top of his own, a thumb gently stroking over the back of his hand in a far too intimate fashion. “It’s all right. We’ll figure it out," Harry says softly. "Let’s just get to bed.” Draco gets up and walks to the front door because his first instinct is to put as much distance between them as possible. “And where do you think you’re going?” Harry asks, confused. “The flat’s still cold as ice.”

“But—"

“Draco,” Harry sighs, “my bed is big enough for both of us. Come on, now. I have to be up in two hours.”

 _Je peux m’en prendre qu’à moi même._

Clothed in one of Harry’s heady-scented t-shirts, Draco tentatively slips beneath the quilt they’ll apparently be sharing. While Harry's bed is certainly big enough for two adults, they're lying closer than Draco would’ve liked. Every time Harry touches him — why in Circe’s name can’t he keep his hands to himself — his body responds way too much. 

On top of that, everything smells like Harry. Like… warmth and comfort. Draco wraps the quilt around himself, burying his nose in it. He tries not to think about the hot body next to his, and how much he'd like to close the distance. How much he wouldn’t mind being wrapped in Harry’s arms.

* * *

The loud beeping of an alarm clock rudely pulls Draco from his dreams. It feels like a hoard of Thestrals have trampled over him; his head is throbbing, and muscles ache that he didn’t even know existed. 

He opens his eyes, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He has no idea where he is, or how he ended up in this bed. On the pillow beside him lies a note. When Draco picks it up, his eyes fall to the name at the bottom of the paper. 

This seems to kick-start his brain because vivid snippets of last night flash before his eyes. Him knocking on Harry’s door. Harry opening it, wearing nothing but joggers. Harry seeing him completely naked, and… 

Draco can still feel the ghost of another body cuddling him from behind. 

_Maybe this was just a dream._

After running a hand over his face, Draco finally reads the note. 

_Morning._

_I hope I didn’t wake you. And sorry for… you know what I mean. Bacon and eggs are under a stasis charm, and there’s cereal in the cupboards. The fridge is stocked, too. Help yourself._

_Harry_

Draco turns to his side, pulling the blanket over his face. He's not at all ready to come to terms with being in the bed of another man with whom he’s cuddled. The consistent ticking of the clock makes him check the time. Six fifty-one. He should get up and eat. There are many deliveries to send out.

* * *

With the owls on their way, and their own orders safely stored, Draco goes to the counter, where Luna is already waiting. 

“Harry just came by and told me to give you this,” she says by way of greeting, handing him a steaming mug of heaven-sent coffee. “He also warned me, because Amanda Keane owled him again.” 

“That woman is insane. She asked me yesterday if we can dip the carnations in Amortentia and decorate the church with them. Also, who wants yellow carnations at their wedding?” 

Luna ignores his last remark completely. “Harry made apple tarts. You should get some,” she tells him before leaving. 

Draco thinks about it, but he’s embarrassed himself in front of Harry more than once already, and since dinner tonight will undoubtedly give Draco plenty of chances to add to this tally, he won’t go anywhere near the man until then. 

Besides, Draco spots a very familiar owl in the distance.

* * *

The entire situation is bizarre. Draco tries to wrap his brain around what’s happened over the last forty-eight hours. He went from being a Healer in France to standing in Harry Potter’s flat, getting dressed for their dinner tonight. From an outsider’s point of view, this would probably sound very much like he’s going on a date with Harry. 

_For the millionth time, it’s not a date. Harry just asked me to have dinner with him. As an apology._

Draco takes one last opportunity to glance into the mirror before picking up the beer cans and wine he’s found in Neville’s flat and heading downstairs.

_Not a date._

Upon opening the door to the bakery, Draco can see that Harry is still dressed in a stained apron, cleaning up. It makes sense, otherwise he’d been upstairs, but Draco’s brain doesn’t make the connection until now. Nobody should be allowed to look good in dirty clothes, but somehow, Harry manages. 

“I’m so sorry, Draco. Today was a nightmare. Could you give me a hand with the dough?”

“Okay,” Draco responds, readily dispatching the beverages on a nearby table and rolling up his sleeves. He’s never cooked before in his life, every single one of his meals having been made for him since the day he was born. He’d never admit that to Harry, though. 

They’re each devoted to their own task, silence stretching between them. When Draco can’t bear it any longer, he says, “How do you deal with all these weddings? I’m done in after only two days.”

Harry chuckles. “They’re not all like this, thank Godric. There’s been a few over the years that’s made me want to say ‘fuck it all’, though. I never thought owning a bakery could be so stressful at times.”

“About that, why exactly did you call your shop _Baguette Magique_? Or let me rephrase, how drunk were you and Neville when deciding the names for your shops?”

That startles a laugh out of Harry. “It wasn’t our combined intellect that came up with them. We got wasted at a party, and we lost a bet against one of our friends’ older brother, George. It’s never a good idea to bet against George, especially not while drunk.”

“That explains so much.”

“Yeah.” Draco feels Harry’s eyes on him as he returns his attention to his dough, glancing up only to find Harry making his way over to him. “And what do you think you’re doing? Giving the dough a gentle pet? Dig the heels of your hands into it.”

“I am,” Draco protests.

“Here.” Harry is suddenly behind Draco, his hands on top of Draco’s. “See, you have to knead harder, otherwise…” 

A shiver runs over Draco’s entire body at the feel of Harry’s warm breath against his ear, his body pressing against Draco’s back, trapping Draco between the counter and Harry’s broad chest, their hands almost intertwining as Harry moves them. Draco doesn’t have it in him to protest. Instead, he relaxes against Harry. Draco has been busy with work over the last few years, allowing little room for anything else. Also, he’d never been particularly interested in anyone.

If Lucius could see him like this, he’d be ashamed. This, after all, is not how the heir of the Malfoy family should behave. Draco has been raised to be in charge of every situation, to hide his emotions behind a mask of indifference, but around Harry, Draco simply forgets to put it up. 

“So,” Harry said after clearing his throat, which brings Draco back to reality, “do you wanna try with the second dough, Draco?” 

“Absolument!” he blurts, maybe a tad too loud, and — _Merde_ — in the wrong language. Draco blushes, and it’s impossible for Harry to not have noticed. “Of course,” Draco says again, in English this time.

“Good. I’m gonna get this into shape, and then we can put the toppings on it.”

“Oh, we’re making pizza.”

“That’s the idea, unless you’re totally against it?” 

Draco can see the uncertainty on Harry’s face. “No, I— I just never had it,” he confesses.

“That will be rectified tonight then.”

* * *

On Harry’s suggestion, they relocate upstairs to his flat, rendering Draco seated across from Harry in the dimmed light of his cosy kitchen. Add to that Harry’s soft expression, and Draco is suddenly unsure of what this is. He holds Harry’s gaze this time, feeling challenged by the man, and it’s not like he can start eating when his host hasn’t. He might not have acted like a Malfoy the entire evening, or the entire last two days if he’s honest, but he hasn’t forgotten everything he’s been taught.

Draco takes a sip from his beer, hoping Harry will take the hint. Naturally, he doesn’t, forcing Draco to eventually break etiquette. He picks up a slice of pizza and takes a small bite.

A truly unflattering moan escapes Draco’s mouth, and he gets the sinking feeling he’s blushing again. 

“Sorry about that," Draco says after swallowing, "but this is amazing.” Harry chuckles and finally digs in as well. After he’s taken a large bite, Draco seizes the opportunity to ask him something he’s dying to know. “Why a bakery?”

“Honestly, it wasn’t my dream growing up; I always wanted to be an Auror.” Draco huffs out a laugh. “It’s true,” Harry continues with an amused smile on his face. “I tried to be one, but I simply couldn’t. Not after all that had happened. Cooking is still difficult for me sometimes — long story short, the people I grew up with were abusive arseholes and forced me to cook for them before I even could read — but baking is different. I love seeing happy smiles on people's faces when they come into the bakery. And I also love the involuntary moans people let out as they taste my treats.” Harry smirks at him, and Draco tries his best to stay cool, knowing he’s failed when he feels the heat rushing to his cheeks once more. That’s when Harry begins to laugh — a loud, belly laugh that fills the room.

It’s infectious, and it’s never fake. If Draco could, he’d bottle it up and listen to it on repeat for the rest of his days. Harry never pretends, and maybe that’s why Draco finds himself so drawn to him. Harry wears his heart and his emotions on his sleeve, and Draco never has to guess how the man really feels.

The only thing that’s still somewhat a mystery to Draco is what they’re doing right now. Because this doesn’t really feel like a simple apology meal shared with… a friend? Are they even friends?

“And why did you come back here, Draco?” Draco’s eyes snap back to Harry’s. He hadn’t even realised he was looking elsewhere. “Neville told me you grew up in England?"

Draco sighs heavily.

“That sounds like it’s a long, complicated story.”

“Yeah. I think it’d require something stronger than this.” Draco points to the beer.

Harry raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. “Okay, stay here. I’ll be back in a sec.”

* * *

By the time Draco has told Harry literally everything he can think of, the bottle of lemon vodka is nearing its end. Draco’s never been one for spilling his guts, and he’s not quite sure how or why it happened tonight. He’d briefly considered the possibility that Harry had spiked the booze with Veritaserum, but no matter why it came to happen, he feels relieved. A burden lifted from his shoulders. 

It’s also possible that Draco just likes the way Harry solely focuses on him when he speaks. Maybe he likes it a tad more than he should. 

Talking about the past — his father, his mother, the war — is hard. Narcissa took Draco’s place when his father had failed to bring the Prophecy to the Dark Lord. To this day, only a few people know of how she had sacrificed her health and herself for her son.

That's why Draco had come back; Narcissa. Being a Healer, an expert in Spell Damage, can't help his mother if he’s hundreds of miles away. He can't support her from France, and he _has_ to help her. There's this overwhelming guilt hanging over him, the notion that her poor condition is ultimately his fault. It follows him like a shadow everywhere he goes. 

"I think we should go to bed," Harry announces with a slight lull.

"C'est vrai." Draco stands up and takes a few unsteady steps. The ground is moving slightly, making it hard for him to know where it’d be safe to walk. He reaches the end of the table when Harry grabs his arm. 

"I like it when you talk French," Harry purrs, standing up as well with a little help from Draco.

"Alors, je devrais le faire plus souvent."

"Yes, that," Harry answers. 

Suddenly, Draco is leaning in, no, _they're_ leaning in, gravitating closer and closer to each other, until a noise from outside snaps Draco out of his trance. He pulls back, staring wide-eyed at Harry for a second before rushing to the bathroom.

* * *

In an almost completely dark room, Draco registers a warm body curled up behind him and soft huffs of breath tickling the back of his neck, causing his hair to stand up. A warm palm rests on his stomach, directly on his skin thanks to the borrowed shirt that has ridden up. 

Draco stirs, his head still in a daze, and Harry’s hand strokes soothingly — and a bit uncoordinated — over Draco’s skin. Without thinking, Draco puts his hand over Harry’s, lacing their fingers together, similar to how Harry had done a couple of hours earlier. 

On instinct, the pair nestle closer together, Harry’s warm chest pressing against Draco’s back. Soft lips brush against his neck, sending shivers of pleasure rolling over Draco’s skin. Draco adjusts his position slightly and Harry’s lips graze over another patch of skin. 

Draco feels a warm huff of air near his ear only a split second before Harry leans forward and kisses the spot behind his ear, causing Draco to let out a shaky breath. He slowly turns his head towards Harry and the next kiss lands on his lips, warm and tender. 

Draco’s head is spinning when he goes in for another, and another, because the feeling of those incredibly soft lips on his is terribly addictive. So addictive that the need for oxygen becomes an afterthought. He can’t remember the last time anyone kissed him like this, or if anyone ever has. 

Nobody’s been able to get under Draco’s skin the way Harry does, and he isn’t even trying. Never before has the slightest of physical contact made Draco want to melt into the touch. Nowhere else has Draco felt this safe. 

Safe and vulnerable at the same time. There’s a tenderness behind every kiss and caress that leaves him craving more. 

A virtually impossible more as he’ll be leaving tomorrow. 

Draco turns away from Harry, not sure how to deal with the whirlwind of unfamiliar emotions. In the darkness, he can hide and pretend there’s nothing wrong. His thoughts are jumping from one place to another, words inadequate to express his feelings. Distracting Harry, and himself, from his inner turmoil, Draco reaches behind himself, his hand running down Harry’s side to the elastic of his jogger bottoms. 

His hand slips under the waistband, moving from the hipbone to Harry’s cock. As Draco has correctly assessed yesterday, Harry is naked underneath. It’s an awkward position, but Draco doesn’t care. Draco has felt Harry getting hard ever since they started kissing, and while he isn’t an expert on dealing with feelings, he definitely knows how to get his partner off. The moans Harry lets out when Draco strokes his cock indicate he’s doing well. 

Sex, in the past, has always been quick, an efficient way to reach orgasm and then part ways. That's been enough for Draco, whose schedule has always been filled to the brim. None of the blokes ever knew anything about Draco’s life, sometimes not even his name. 

Harry presses open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin he can reach. Draco bites back his own moans and puts more effort into getting Harry off. 

"Wai— Oh fuck. Wait, Draco," Harry pants. Of course, Draco stops. Harry pulls Draco’s hand out of his joggers before gently beckoning Draco to turn to lie on his back. “Let me,” he whispers, his lips hovering close to Draco’s but not kissing. 

As if he has all the time in the world, Harry pushes Draco’s shirt up, mapping the newly revealed skin with delicate touches. Every past encounter pales against what Draco is experiencing now. Each touch — of tongue, of lips, of hands — unravels him, exposing him to Harry. The notion of time and space are completely lost on Draco, who switches between swearing and moaning. 

Suddenly, a gentle breeze of magic blows over Draco’s body, leaving them both completely naked and making the hairs on his arm stand on end. For a moment, Harry lies on top of him, pressing their bodies together, skin meeting skin. The moans that threaten to escape Draco’s mouth as Harry begins to roll his hips, sliding their cocks together, are all swallowed by Harry’s kisses.

Draco’s heart beats so loud and fast he can barely hear Harry whisper, “Can I try something?” 

He has an even harder time responding with a breathy, “Oui.” 

Humming appreciatively, Harry beckons him to lie on his side. His hand slides over Draco’s skin, carefully finding his way between Draco's thighs. Draco doesn't know when he cast a Lubrication spell, but Harry slicks up the inside of Draco’s thighs, then slides his cock between them. 

_Putain. Putain._

It starts as a slow, steady movement, but the level of intimacy is scary and the intensity of the situation threatens to overwhelm Draco. He presses his thighs more tightly together and moves as well, shuddering at the feel of Harry’s cock stroking the underside of his balls with every thrust. Then Harry stops abruptly, and for a moment, Draco fears he’s screwed something up. As he turns to look at him, though, Draco is rewarded with yet another passionate kiss. 

“Relax,” Harry whispers against his lips. “Let me take care of you.” 

Harry’s warm palm strokes appeasingly over Draco’s side before his arm slings around Draco’s middle, his hand resting over his heart. Harry resumes to fuck Draco’s thighs, teasingly slow in the beginning and then in earnest. 

The room is filled with moans, murmured swears, and slick slaps of skin on skin. Then, Harry presses open-mouthed kisses on Draco’s neck, his jaw. The second he gently bites into his earlobe, Draco mewls. 

He’s lost in everything, he’s forgotten all about his own, by now achingly hard, cock. When Harry wraps his hand around it, Draco is ready to burst. His muscular fingers alter between loosely moving up and down and applying just the right amount of pressure. Every time Draco thinks he’s gonna come, Harry readjusts his grip. Torture in the best of ways.

Their breaths become shorter, jagged, and Harry loses his rhythm. Two more strokes are enough for Draco to spill all over the sheets. Draco’s barely conscious enough to notice when Harry reaches his own release shortly after him, but the shout of pleasure is hard to miss.

* * *

The ringing of the alarm clock is the shrillest sound Draco has ever heard in his life. Draco isn’t sure if the horrible headache is caused by this or the liquor he was exposed to yesterday. In the small Healer kit he brought along, there are potions for almost every contingency, but since Draco didn’t think he’d get wasted while looking after plants, there's sadly no Hangover Cure to find in there.

Draco quickly checks the pillow, but there's no message. He can’t smell bacon or waffles either. He didn't expect Harry to make him breakfast again, but for some reason, being left without anything turns Draco's stomach. 

The nausea might actually be a symptom of his hangover and not Harry-related at all. After managing to stand upright, Draco slowly walks to the bathroom and checks it for potions, but all he can find are empty phials. 

Draco risks a glance into the mirror, but besides his slightly green complexion, his body is free of marks. No hint of what happened last night. He should be happy about this. In the past, he’s always cursed the bastards forcing him to heal bruises they left behind. And if there are no marks, he can push all the memories aside and not think about it again. However, instead of relief and happiness, sadness claws on his insides. 

Draco refuses to be miserable about something that has come with an expiration date. 

He undresses and gets into the shower. The lingering feeling of Harry's fingers and lips on his body must be washed away. Then, he will go downstairs, avoid Harry, and leave by Portkey tonight as planned.

* * *

The last order of business in the greenhouses are, once again, the mimosas for St Mungo's. 

They're supposed to be delivered today, but Draco can't get them to blossom. Only when in full bloom do they reach their full magical potential. 

With the sleeve of his jumper, he wipes sweat from his forehead and casts another Patronus. The silvery stream barely hits the plants before it's gone. 

Draco takes a deep breath. He thinks back to all the things that have made him happy. Like his mother chasing him around the gardens at Rosier Villa, or the day he passed his exams and officially became a Healer. 

In between, flashes from last night creep back into his head. The harder Draco forces them out, the more they come back. Every inch of his body that Harry has touched tingles, and it's amazing and awful all at the same time. A once-in-a-lifetime thing, and Draco wishes he hadn't been tipsy when it happened. 

Draco shifts his attention back to the mimosas. He's so engrossed in his task, he doesn't notice somebody entering. 

As soon as a cup is set next to him, Draco knows his plan to avoid Harry has failed. 

"I came to tell you that Dudley is currently fixing the boiler. He'll be done before Neville is back tonight."

"Thanks," Draco says, his eyes fixed on the plants, "for both the boiler and the tea." Harry remains where he is, as if he's waiting for Draco to say more. Draco can't, so he casts another Patronus, hoping Harry gets the hint. It's weaker than the ones before. 

Draco grits his teeth. "I'd like to focus on my work. You're distracting me." Harry doesn’t have to see him failing at casting a spell. 

“Can we talk?” 

Draco tries casting another Patronus. 

“Draco, did you hear me?” 

Draco furiously waves his wand in an attempt to finally succeed and be out of here. He doesn’t want to hear Harry saying thank you for last night, followed by a goodbye. Draco knows it’s pathetic, but he has no idea how to deal with emotions like these. 

In the middle of casting another Patronus, his wand is suddenly gone. He glances up at Harry who holds it out. When Draco tries to reach for it, Harry hides it behind his back. 

“You’re… puéril.”

“I’ll be whatever, as long as we can finally talk.” 

_Let’s just get this over with._

Draco’s hand motions for Harry to continue. 

“Fine.” Harry exhales and runs a hand through his messy hair. “Last night was—”

“—A mistake, I know.” 

“That’s…” Harry draws in a deep breath as if he’s preparing for a long monologue but then he deflates, his face falling at the time. “Fine.” Another pause. “I’ll leave you to it then.” Draco watches Harry putting his hands into his pockets and turning around, his head hanging low as he walks towards the door. 

Draco reaches for his hand after only two steps. 

“You—” The moment Harry’s eyes meet his Draco is lost for words again. He swallows around the lump in his throat and looks down at his hand gripping Harry’s wrist. “You still have my wand.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, blinking, confused. “Here.” He returns the wand and tries to step away, but Draco holds his grip. 

“What did you come here to say? And please don’t make me beg.” 

“I just…” With his free hand, Harry ruffles his hair again. “I just wanted to tell you that, while I don’t usually do things like that, I’m not sorry it happened. And I know you’re leaving, and that we barely know each other, but we only live one Portkey apart and I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to have dinner with me on the fifteenth? I’ll be too busy on Valentine’s day.”

Draco’s heart does a somersault at hearing these words and his face splits into a wide grin. “Yes, Harry.”

In one swift movement, Harry cups Draco’s face in his hands and kisses him. A kiss full of hope and promise. They continue kissing for Merlin knows how long, and when they break apart, Harry looks past Draco’s head. 

“I reckon the plants agree.”

Looking over his shoulder, Draco sees the mimosas blooming. He turns back to Harry, smiling. “Do you think we can get them to bloom some more?” 

“We can certainly try.” Harry smirks at him and kisses him again.

Behind them, the mimosas burst with colour, but nobody notices.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  _"Vas-t-en,” Draco grumbles. “Je dors.”_ — "Go away," Draco grumbles. "I'm sleeping." 
> 
> _“Non, c’est trop tôt.”_ — No, it's too early.
> 
>  _Merde. Je suis vraiment foutu!_ — Shit. I'm so screwed
> 
>  _Je peux m’en prendre qu’à moi même._ — I only have myself to blame. 
> 
> _"Alors, je devrais le faire plus souvent."_ — Well, I should do it more often. 
> 
> _puéril_ — childish
> 
> * * *
> 
> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Romance anthology](/series/2153148), a series of Drarry fics inspired by the romantic spirit of Valentine’s Day.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/3tIY5TG); one song for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


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